13 Feb 2019

blood circulation

She said my hands are so cold! She's one of those people who notices, it's important, reminds me that it's important. But...

I gotta stop seeking, in all senses. Of course it wasn't gonna work, at home, under covers, seething colours and shrouds of light, what was acid gonna teach me, what confidence could it give me? Of course it wasn't gonna work in some might-as-well-be-random sample of several hundred dubious matches, so much theory, so little practice.

The romantic, in the most literal sense (if there can be one) and the spiritual have fused-together-so-tight, a rogue nucleus ripe for chain reaction: stellar energy. Or pointless burn-out, nebulae broadcasting noise to nobody. I'm orbiting this thing I call love, small l and capital L, the major and the minor, trying to create faith as all basis for it weakens, a spent force, heavy element shedding particles. It's like the danaides topoi and the leaky basin, trying forever to fill it so I can bathe away my sins. Also like how I try to fill my brain with stuff that blocks neurotransmitters from re-absorption, so I can be happier, and functional, and driven - but my life won't co-operate, even with the pragmatic boost of mood, the circumstances of failing to meet my goals, such modest goals, keep battering down my will to keep seeking and the extra transmitters don't help that much. Just barely keeping afloat.

Actually, I don't lose much sleep over many goals, it's mainly just that one goal, of literal romance. What is literal romance? Oh for me, it's like one of those novels, except way more realistic, and all the better for that, some kind of problematic partnership, with conflict, but enough moments of comfort. The last few times it's been weird inabilities to communicate or re-connect even though we thought we were both so open, the vexation of not being able to identify the blockage, or the deeper unconscious not allowing that to happen. Polite fights, cold conflict. Rage and passion were much better, I miss those relationships more.




Redemption in the void




Is there any forgiveness, beyond the black rainbow? Can I find something to forgive me, can I personify it, can I make you the angel I need to have?

Is there redemption in the void? Can I find something to forgive me, can I personify it, can I make you the angel I need to have?

As is traditional with these things, there's a disorienting segue, then crossfade. At some point we hear a voice. The rare bits of dialog have so much weight, your earthly ambassador in this opaque maze: a human voice, and he sets the theme early. "It's easy to get disillusioned." There's an appropriate kaleidoscope of associations as the voice settles in. "If you don't know who you are. What you are." Then the light changes and the face shifts in palettes seeping underneath. "I know who I am. What I am. That's what gives me my confidence. And my power."

Everyone is getting so hermetic. Good for them, it's what they want, to be sealed off, I can understand that kind of want. I do my own form of sealing off, I like to get into extreme comfort trips, music videos that feel up-beat, the rhythm can go down for a second in such and such a way, as it happened before. There are cursors here and there. What is created in the void doesn't matter how it sounds, later.

Why am I reminding myself of emptiness again and again? Can't you hear me? You hear me. I heard that. Nod the head. Off the wagon. Was on the nod. I assent to that. Since I forgot what it was like. How can it all sound so much the same, across filters of personality? Vision of universality takes the form of grass, a rainy blade, that kind of blade, a perfectly wonderful bug crawling over that blade, what's outside of the black rainbow. What they told me I had a right to. Not in a proprietary way, not like the most perverse jesus-freak imaginable.

Flirting with identifying self as unnatural. I stopped being a fan of nature, you can get to thinking that way when you've hung out too long beyond the black rainbow. I want to be natural, with you. Can I have some of your nature? Cause I was in that less-than-nothing howling wind, in the hallway, remember that hallway? It was life or death in that hallway, beyond the life and death spans of individuals, if you can imagine that, you had to hold on for dear life, and at the same time, reach out, to find another ledge, you had to venture, the stakes were higher than anything.

I remember that I was unnatural lust personified, but what is unnatural about that? It's a part of nature that has a source of joy, but the drives it creates, take the form of enormous feats of heroism and treachery, betraying one's own code of morality, the deep desire to include oneself in others, wearing the black jacket of Noriega's fine custom leather and ruminating on some brand of unnaturalism, even after taking off one's appliances, a bare head sticky with hair glue, still feeling as unnatural as ever because what remains post-appliances is a deformed retinal-scarred thing you could barely call a living creature --- but the whole time, wanting that natural reality, the remedy for the sucking void inside, the depth and desperation of that need making the living thing inside the leather jacket all the more wretched, all the less desirable, no matter how red the light, no matter how effective the drugs, no matter what the voice on the phone said, that all important beyond-the-facility communication with a forest of fax sounds book-ending the drawn retrograde breath, a short sprout of telecom trees being the nail in the coffin of the message, a thing it didn't ask for but a fatal partnership, cemented in betrayal and casual cruelty, mutual culpability, observation rooms and mud and blood - but we needn't get so literal. But let's do it anyway, irony left me, don't care how I sound, I'm down to trading in cliches, obeying the basest instinct, and seeing this all from the outside, besides.

The scene of the assisted suicide of Dr. Mercurial Arboria is the most sad and beautiful thing I've ever seen on a screen. I haven't been moved by a movie like this in, I dunno, ever. Had become so aloof to the artform, the idea of even watching any movie twice sounded insane. And yet I can get lost in this one, make it my whole world, my music video. I'll latch onto that shadow vision, I'll grip it tight and yet try and keep my oily personality off of it, and not tag it too much, just let it be what it is in my head, not try and make it anything for others. But I want to bring other people into my world. But there are ways to go about that (keep it dead, in the shed, that's the way). There are windowpanes you keep shut, unless you have to remind yourself again.

When things become as elemental as the pale man in the black jacket and the girl with the teardrop, I remember. The man deranged in perfect control, arranged as protocol demanded, the procedure in place. And the girl, angel, taking on all these burdens, giving birth, taking the hit for more life. She appears angelic to my bug eyes, even though I know she's no angel really, she gets dirty, she gets into the mud, the mud gets into her, we breathe it together. We're all guilty in this planetary prison colony. This putrescent life made her a killer, the new age of enlightenment, like we needed yet another one, has warped her telekinetic abilities into a narrow brutal survivalist's toolkit.

We've been beyond the rainbow together. When we brought back the motherlode, we found there was no back, not anymore. We didn't know what to do, it had gotten away from us. Bad things happened, every moment since an attempt to salvage something from the horror. Words fail, and that is so wonderful, that I can't tag it, when words flow off it like it's a gleaming teflon skull, the new-school mercury alloy of programmed molecules, that's when you know it's legit, it's the real deal, it's a work of art worth inhabiting me, making me its gibbering evangelist, the art will be fine, whether I represent it well or not, it doesn't matter.

Barry. Bring home the motherlode, Barry. The character's name is Barry. There is no home, not anymore.
President Deals' final deal: I'll suck your dick! Just let me keep my wig and makeup, that's a steal!

Validation

Self worth charges like a bull, it climbs as the market shrinks. That self-worth is useless in this world, only drives me crazy, why does no one want me in that way, I'm doing all the right things. Well fuck it, I'll still feel worthy, but the currency is worthless because the market doesn't want me, I can't sell myself, I'd even be some kind of whore, sell my money for sex. I'd be some kind of slut if I could do that at least, but I can't, not even that.

Self worth isn't my problem, I think I'm better than I've ever been. Whatever that's worth. For all the good it does. Self worth is painful cognitive dissonance, a genuine pride, but the value's so shaky because the world won't validate. I do appreciate my collection of people who prop me up, I'm fond of them, but my newest sickest obsession is to have my worth confirmed by that ever elusive outside, the only kind of validation that gives me that feeling I haven't had in so long.

Validation is not a trivialization, it's not just for me - it's to make me secure enough that I can be my best self for others, especially a special other. That synergistic strength that is worth the hassle and the daily grind it demands, that feeling I haven't had in so long, in sickness and health, that feeling that I need... is, perhaps, a junkie's sickness effectively, though it's supposed to be the natural high I'm supposed to substitute now that I'm sober, but... for all the good is does me, might as well be a junkie. Never really got a great blowjob, but I think I know what real love is, even though it's been years, I still got the craving for that, it's never left me, I experienced that feeling a man has with a woman that is impossible to substitute or synthesize and I've been hooked ever since. And when it comes to sex, a mediocre real is way better than an impossible ideal, mediocre can be amazing with context, in the with context.

God, this maudlin obsession limps on, a hunting dog with a leg cut off, compromised pheromones and a plugged nose, not knowing where to go, maybe vaguely forward, could be staggering in circles.

12 Feb 2019

truly seedless

finding the seed in the kinetic moment, that energy i can tap into if i trick myself to be on the right frequency, play tricks with myself, they're not for kids

Tropes


10 Feb 2019

Against all odds

In the front seat of the car, thinking I can't hear them, they talk, like I'm not there, saying, "against all odds, too", like in addition to this guy they're talking about being an entitled asshole, he's also comically short, for a man, as we all know, so you'd think, he wouldn't be allowed to be with this poor better woman, but against all odds, here he is, and now we're talking about him, and how he better smarten up, cause there's a line for that lady. Also, the guy is not really grooving with our substance abuse cult like we would like, so we're taking his inventory. All that said, the cult is relatively benign, sometimes beneficent. And necessarily omnipresent, aside from the five-to-thirty percent we all leave, after taking what we need. But it's gonna take someone really special, for me to have any likeness to that fellow shortie's life, what he takes for granted, in this cult we're all in - a very special woman that I just must forget about, entomb my awareness of anything in the gravity well of that possibility, you have to forget, close your mind. Oh, really though, you don't have to do anything but you're responsible for everything. Everything.

I love every one. Not everyone. What I love is every one of those things that I made myself, created, like I'm some nothing-burger mother, but I'm also a god, I'm 100% responsible for what I said, what I did, what I made, I'm legally responsible for this self's behavior. I'm held to account, and yet I take my job lightly, go about it as if I'm in contempt for the whole thing. I will create myself company and love that alone, as a substitute, for lack of chemical reaction with outside matter. I can't justify it, and it's impossible to explain, especially to You, I'm deciding, cause you can't explain anything to me, beyond the nothing you said. I hate job interviews. And don't let me know I'm being evaluated as a man with value to this woman, garroted with a grid of razor-wire criteria, over the hour. Never again. Never subject self to opera seria inquiry... never submit to chemical scrutiny - never assent to that essentialist stress-test. I never have to go to school again, non serviam. My only service is to the sucking black vacuum outside, loyal service. I'll coldly purge the botched interaction, but keep a copy safe, three sub folders below absolute zero, in its own climate-controlled microverse, accessible, ♫ always-already ♪, except when I forget

always-already - fuck you I won't do what you tell me! I'm sinking back into the story that was my whole universe. All fronts colliding and crumbling, sometimes it's good for things to crumble. But crumpling is not as good, implosion not so good, it comes from a real place, like that character played by David Cross in that Mr. Show skit said, oh, CAN... I have this chair, then? Seriously?" I need a keyboard to pound on, nothing else matters, it's all insectile owners of the vacuum outside, they suck like an electrolux, escaping air is lox for those alien lungs, a tax on laxatives for the initiation of constipation for the foundation of pretending to have a purpose, the basis for the base, the moonrock dust-like base of the whole edifice. I fought hard to get to this place, so since I'm here I might just loop around the lazy river for an interlude I can stretch indefinitely, can will time to slow, wrap its passage around a finger of mine, and sniff it all up, just right, dinner time, let the sterile context depreciate steadily and remain master, controller coffers fine, don't need a bake sale.

A peak for no reason... vapourizing rocks, becoming the elemental head of Crevelent. No valent electrons, no immediately available ointment of contentment. Contempt for all others. Familiarity breeds contempt. Multiplies hatred. Ultimate familiarity with self is a bottomless wound of narcissism, ultimate narcissism is hatred in the most informed sense. Everything which is the case is my hatred for this you-self in my dream. Maybe that's why I need sensory deprivation. The senses disappoint me, like they've not allotted me my lot in life yet, maybe on the other side of this yet is a yeti that will look like me and offer me a | neeeeeew drug * * da * da * dadada | one that won't try to bite * * da * da * dadada * * * * * * |  * one that won't chew a hole in my socks  * * * | one that will make me fe-el * * aaaaaalll-right. Alright, ♫ Always-already ♪, it's beautiful, this thing you call *it*, this black rainbow you've made. That's you, that's how you wanna go out, you wanna euthanize your younger self, re-arrange episodes like a god-like analogy, do some hands-on management of your past, cause this mission requires time travel or is it just a hallucination, or a delusional extrapolation? There's no cross pollination, there's radiation blasted space-exposed moon dust.

So if politics is the art of the pragmatic, as well as the possible, I suggest we agree on a contract to prop up an evidence-based survey that says sensory deprivation is the thing. The thing to drop like a drip of awareness in the waters where the ghostfish bite. No bait, no shutter, shutterbate, yes, chatterbate, yes, calibrate, Manifest Dust in E. Dusty mind, mind to mind, dusty, misty, dim, mindful of that mind, dim, done. Drank You-self Drunk. You skank sell-out. That's not something I would say. That's not me, that's a character I'm playing since I'm an irony bro. Ever since 2001, when everybody was abandoning irony, I was tripling down on it, and I've been nothing but a collection of characters, sometimes re-encoded by a barely seen alien power that taps into my viral channels.


                                    Expect delays.

5 Feb 2019

turning away

Brutal. Punishing. Waiting for the next gut punch, off-chance it's a caress. Gotta wait. But I digress. I'm getting beaten up, eaten up, can't do this anymore, can't be trying to find someone.

Turn away. Turn away. Don't be flayed. Don't be played. Don't get laid. Turn away. Can't be flayed, when I'm turned away. Turned away.

There don't need to be examples. I don't need to be an example. I don't need to learn from examples. If I turn away.

I see that I'm doing it. Getting played. Getting flayed. You can see that I'm doing it. So I'm turning away, running away so I can't be seen.

Was barely seen anyway, but I put my face in the fray, so I could be rayed with the little light I could get. The light that burned, I'm turning away, running away, so I can't be burned again, diving into the dark sea where I'm a little drop of awareness, I can still be seen if you really wanna see me, if you wanna meet me halfway, in the gray, I'll be here, if you really wanna, but I'll no longer burn in the light.

2 Feb 2019

keeping myself company

It's been a desert, prolific in sand, bursting with dust. Facets of minutia glint off ribs of stalactites in the cone of my floodlight as I blunder further into the cave, it's warm, conditioned, climate controlled, stalagmites are piles of tires, rags, plastic, and cardboard boxes of lean cuisine.

A longer than normal run of no comments. A certain kind of craving sets in. Milk the body like my own parasite cause there's no people around - so go digi-sexual: pull the lever, release the current trained on my brain through the ocular main vein, quick, change lanes, just pass reality, merge left, cut to the chase - but it's really good porn, it's so good - so good - a couple of orgasms, 9.6 and 9.7 - on the solo scale, which is a common lowly scale because

orgasms with/in women are on a whole other scale, like six richters bridge the gap. Not once but twice in three hours, so I'm spent and strangely proud of the effort and sacrifice, valuing sex-drive as life-affirmation on some molecular level, the prolifery of wasted fertility, crust to dust. Breathe in my own dead skin cells over the course of another twelve months.

I'm left emptied. Can now assume full philosophical detachment. The only tinge of emotion left is a vaguely sad emptiness, but the vagueness mercifully veils the sadness in heavy fog. The fog is lukewarm, a thin layer of vapour of warm thoughts, the ice vaporized, its strands of frost separating, breaking apart in the air in the night, above the lake, the tenuous warmth of modern thoughts, needn't make any scientific sense, it needn't anything.